Tales of the City 02 - More Tales of the City

…”
    “Tonight, right?”
    She nodded.
    He flung back the covers and leaped out of bed.
    “Where are you going?”
    “Back to my apartment.”
    “Burke, I didn’t mean—”
    “I have to change, don’t I? Will jeans do … or do I need a tuxedo for Les Halles?”
    “Come back here.”
    “Why?”
    “Because,” she grinned, “if I’m going to deflower you, you can at least return the favor.”
    It was midnight now. Downstairs, on the second floor of 28 Barbary Lane, Michael and Jon were in bed watching a rerun of The Honeymooners.
    “I love the tube,” sighed Michael, passing Jon their communal dish of Rocky Road ice cream. “I loved this program almost as much as I loved Little Lulu comics.”
    Jon smiled. “Remember Little Itch?”
    “Sure. And Tubby! My father built me a playhouse just like Tubby’s, complete with a No Girls Allowed sign.”
    “Maybe that’s what turned you queer.”
    “Nah. I know who did that. That guy on ice in L.A.”
    “Who?”
    “Walt Disney. The Mickey Mouse Club.”
    “The Mickey Mouse Club turned you queer?”
    “Well …” Michael took a long drag on the hash pipe and handed it to Jon. “You either got off on Annette’s tits or you didn’t. If you did, you were straight. If you didn’t you had only one alternative.”
    “I’m waiting.”
    “Spin and Marty. God, I used to agonize over that show!”
    Jon smiled wistfully. “I’d almost forgotten about that.”
    “That’s because you identified with Spin. Those of us who identified with Marty will never, ever, forget it.”
    “What makes you think I identified with Spin?”
    “Because you were cool even when you were eight years old. You’ve never known what it feels like to be a wimp. You won all the prizes at summer camp, and the other kids were electing you to some-fucking-thing-or-another every time you turned around. Am I right?”
    Jon ignored the question. “You ate all the ice cream,” he said.
    “I knew I was right.”
    The doctor simply smiled at him.

To Market, to Market
    A BLUE AND YELLOW ARMADA OF CHRONICLE DELIVERY trucks was the only sign of life on Fifth Street when Mary Ann checked her wristwatch just after 3 A.M.
    “It’s eerie,” she said, settling back in the cab again, “but kind of glamorous at the same time. I feel like Audrey Hepburn in Charade.”
    Burke nodded in silence.
    “You aren’t nervous, are you?”
    “I think the word is numb.”
    “We can turn back, Burke, if you really think—”
    “No. I wanna do it.” His eyes were glazed with steely determination, but Mary Ann could sense the terror beneath. “Burke, you have nothing to fear but—”
    He put his hand to her lips. “Don’t say it.”
    Just then, the cab stopped at Brannan Street, where a row of pastel florist vans marked the entrance to the San Francisco Flower Mart. Burke paid the driver, while Mary Ann waited anxiously on the curb.
    The market was a series of interlocking buildings, fragrant white caverns ablaze with fluorescent light. The pungent odor of cut stems tingled in Mary Ann’s nose even before they entered the largest building.
    “Burke … do you want me to go in first?”
    “No. I’m ready.”
    “Remember, we can leave whenever—”
    “I know. Let’s go.”
    The mammoth floral hangar was bustling with tired-eyed retailers. Nodding to each other in the intimate language of night people, they pawed through mountains of blooms to find exactly the right gladiola, the right cyclamen, the right tinted daisy or potted palm.
    Mary Ann felt awkward and conspicuous, like a space traveler on another planet. She took Burke’s arm. “Do you think they can tell the Flower People from the Non-Flower People?”
    “Beats me.”
    “I haven’t seen any roses yet.”
    “Who’s looking?”
    They moved from table to table, chatting briefly with the pleasant, Norman Rockwell-looking people who stood wrapping flowers in newspapers.
    “Do you have roses?” Mary Ann asked at last.
    “Over there,” smiled a dumpling-shaped woman in a green smock. “The table against the wall. This is wholesale, though.”
    Burke grinned uneasily as they walked away. “They can tell, can’t they?”
    “Burke … I want you to let me know if—”
    “It’s O.K., sweetheart. I promise.”
    The roses were crammed by the thousands into large green metal cans. Seeing them, Mary Ann unconsciously tightened her grip on Burke’s arm.
    Burke seemed to grow paler. “It’s all right,” he assured her.